The Project Gutenberg eBook of Arbor and Bird Day Manual, edited by Grace R. Clifton

There was once a little bunny,

In a little wooden hutch;

He'd a happy little master,

And he loved him very much.

But that bunny wasn't happy,

Tho' he'd such a pleasant home,

For he thought 'twould be much nicer

In the world outside to roam.

So he asked the pretty ponies,

And both answered with a neigh,

"Don't be silly; we should miss you,

If you were to run away."

So that foolish little bunny

Whispered, "Thank you, very much,"

And went back again, contented,

To his little wooden hutch.

In the year 1806, a man living in Jefferson County, happened to look out upon the Ohio River one day when he saw floating down with the tide a strange looking craft. It consisted of two ordinary canoes lashed together. The crew was one very oddly-dressed man and the cargo comprised racks of appleseeds. This singular man was John Chapman, better known as "Johnny Appleseed," from his penchant for gathering apple-seeds at the cider-presses in western Pennsylvania, bringing them to Ohio, planting them at suitable places, so when the pioneer came he would find an abundance of young apple trees ready for planting.

This was the mission of "Johnny Appleseed" who conscientiously believed it had been heaven sent. He was deeply religious and his faith taught him he could live as complete a life in thus serving his fellow-men, as in perhaps some higher (?) sphere of usefulness. Certainly the result of his labors proved a great blessing to the Ohio pioneer.

Very little is known of Johnny Appleseed before he came to Ohio. He was born in Springfield, Massachusetts, in the opening of the Revolutionary War, 1775. As a boy he loved to roam the woods, searching for plants and flowers. He was a lover of nature in all its forms. He studied the birds as well as the flowers. He loved the song of the brook as he did that of the birds. At night he would lie upon his back and gaze into the sky and whether he studied flowers or stars, brooks or birds, he saw God's hand-writing in them all. It is thought he came westward with his half-brother about the year 1801, and located somewhere about Pittsburgh. His father, Nathaniel Chapman, shortly afterward became one of the residents of Marietta and later moved to Duck Creek, in Washington county, where he died. "Johnny" never spoke much about his previous life. It was said by some that he had been once disappointed in love and this accounted for his never marrying and for living the life he did. This is not probable. Such stories are told about every old bachelor and since they are so common, they lose their value.

What educational advantages our tree-planter enjoyed, we do not know, either. But it is certain he possessed a fair knowledge of the rudiments of learning. He was a great reader for one of his time and his mode of life, and moreover, he was a clear thinker.

There are some who would call "Johnny Appleseed" "queer;" others, "freakish;" again, "eccentric," etc. This peculiar, odd personage may be described by all these terms. But the ruling passion of his life was to plant apple-seeds, because he loved to see trees grow and because he loved his fellow-men. The world has often been made better because there was a man who possessed but one idea, and he worked it for all it was worth.

"Johnny's" methods were to keep up with the van of pioneerdom and move along with it to the westward. So we find him in the early years of the century in western Pennsylvania, then in Ohio, and after forty-five years of service to mankind, he dies and is buried near Ft. Wayne in Indiana.

His nurseries were usually located in the moist land along some stream. Here he would plant the seeds, surround the patch with a brush fence and wander off to plant another one elsewhere. Returning at intervals to prune and care for them, he would soon have thrifty trees growing all over the country.

He did not plant these trees for money, but the pioneer got them oftentimes for old clothes, although his usual price for each tree was "a fip-penny-bit."

The first nursery Johnny planted in Ohio was on George's Run in Jefferson county. Others he planted along the river front, when he moved into the interior of the state. For years he lived in a little rude hut in Richland county near the present town of Perrysville, from where he operated his nurseries in the counties of Richland, Ashland, Wayne, Knox, and Tuscarawas.

On his journeys across the country he usually camped in the woods, although the pioneer latch-string was always hanging out for "Apple-seed John." He carried his cooking utensils with him. His mush-pan serving him for a hat. When he would accept the hospitality of a friend, he preferred making his bed on the floor. He wore few clothes and went bare-footed the most of his time, even when the weather was quite cold. For a coat a coffee sack with holes cut for neck and arms was ample.

There were plenty of Indians in those days and they were troublesome, too, since several massacres occurred in that region. But they never did any harm to our hero. No doubt they thought he was quite a "Medicine Man." Once, during the War of 1812, when the red-men were at their depredations and all the people were flocking to the Mansfield block-house for protection, it was necessary to get a message to Mt. Vernon, asking for the assistance of the militia. It was thirty miles away and the trip had to be made in the night. Johnny volunteered his services. Bare-footed and bare-headed he made his way along the forest trails, where wild animals and probably wild Indians were lurking. The next morning he had returned and with him was the needed help.

He loved everything that lived. He harmed no animal, and if he found any that were wounded or mis-treated, he would care for them as best he could. Once when a snake had bitten him, he instinctively killed it. He never quite forgave himself for this "ungodly passion."

He, as has already been stated, was deeply religious. He was a disciple of Emanuel Swedenborg, and he always carried some religious books about with him, in the bosom of his shirt. These books he would give away. Often he would divide a book into several pieces, so it would go farther. When he visited the pioneers, he would always hold worship and discuss religious subjects with them.

But Johnny was getting old. The first trees he planted had for years been bearing fruit. Still he kept planting and caring for new nurseries. Once in Ft. Wayne he heard that some cattle had broken into one of them and were destroying his trees. The distance was twenty miles. He started at once to protect his property. It was in the early spring of 1845. The weather was raw and the trip was too much for him. He sought shelter at a pioneer home, partook of a bowl of bread and milk for his supper, and before retiring for the night as usual held worship.

The family never forgot that evening. How the simple-minded old man read from the Book, "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." Then he prayed and as he spoke with God, he grew eloquent. His words made a deep impression on all who heard him.

In the morning he was found to have a high fever. Pneumonia had developed during the night. A physician was called, but the age of the man and the exposure to which he had subjected himself for so many years were against him. With the sunshine of joy and satisfaction upon his countenance as though his dying eyes were already looking into the new Jerusalem, "God's finger touched him and he slept."

So he kept traveling, far and wide,

'Till his old limbs failed him and he died.

He said, at last: "'Tis a comfort to feel

I've done some good in the world, though not a great deal."

Weary travelers journeying West,

In the shade of his trees find pleasant rest,

And often they start with glad surprise

At the rosy fruit that around them lies.

And if they inquire whence came such trees

Where not a bough once swayed in the breeze?

The reply still comes as they travel on,

"These trees were planted by Appleseed John."

Grandpa stopped, and from the grass at our feet,

Picked up an apple, large, juicy, and sweet;

Then took out his jack-knife, and, cutting a slice,

Said, as we ate it, "Isn't it nice

To have such apples to eat and enjoy?

Well, there weren't very many when I was a boy,

For the country was new—e'en food was scant;

We had hardly enough to keep us from want,

And this good man, as he rode around,

Oft eating and sleeping upon the ground,

Always carried and planted appleseeds—

Not for himself, but for others' needs.

The appleseeds grew, and we, to-day,

Eat of the fruit planted by the way.

While Johnny—bless him—is under the sod—

His body is—ah! he is with God;

For, child, though it seemed a trifling deed,

For a man just to plant an appleseed,

The apple-tree's shade, the flowers, the fruit,

Have proved a blessing to man and to brute.

Look at the orchards throughout the land,

All of them planted by old Johnny's hand.

He will forever remembered be;

I would wish to have all so think of me."

Ohio Archaeological and Historical Society Publications, Vol. VI, p. 290. Vol. IX, p. 301.

"Philip Seymour" or "Pioneer Life in Richland County" by Rev. James F. McGraw.

A Cincinnati teacher in one of the big intermediate schools recently discussed with her class the question of studying birds. She reminded them that they are city children living in a densely populated district, and that they could hardly expect to see the live birds unless they went into the country, but agreed to forming a bird-study class if the children could give good reasons for doing so.

One child called attention to the fact that they read and studied about many things all over the world that they never hoped to see, why not about birds also? One boy thought it just as necessary for city children to know what was to be seen in the country, as for country children to know what could be seen in the city. There were other reasons offered equally as good, but behind it all was a real live desire, a natural desire, that need give no reasons for its existence, to learn something about the wild birds. The teacher saw this, and being one who realizes that schools are maintained for the benefit of children rather than that children are born and reared to serve a school system, consented to the organization of a Junior Audubon Class.

Bird study in some measure should be given to every class in every school, city and country. Not just because it is new, not just because it is a branch of the now popular nature-study, not just because the children are eager for it, all of which are good reasons, but because of the great need of a national change of attitude toward the wild birds if we are to succeed in preserving this absolutely essential part of our natural resources.

How many of the boys that roam the winter woods appreciate the services of the white-breasted nut-hatch? He is the captain of the small troop of winter resident birds, and where his "yank", "yank", is heard there are the other birds also. Sometimes he is far in advance of the troop, but the small company of followers press on and go where he leads.

In the winter birds are not as common as during the summer, and the bird student sometimes tramps a long ways before he sees one of any kind. Then, all of a sudden he hears the call-note of the nut-hatch, and if he is wise, he will follow it up until he comes upon the company, which will not be far away from where the nut-hatch is heard.

Sometimes only three species are found, but generally four different kinds of birds make up the small company that road the woods together. These four are the white-breasted nuthatch, tufted titmouse, downy woodpecker, and the merry little chickadee. What a happy, contented quartet they are!

One cold and cloudy November morning I thought I had caught a pair of nuthatches that had betrayed their trust. I had followed an old rail fence that bordered a weedy cornfield next to an open woods, and the only birds seen were a few juncos and tree sparrows. After walking about thirty rods, a pair of nuthatches were found; the next ten minutes were spent listening and looking for the other birds that should have been about. None were seen or heard. I was about to make a note of the fact; but, it being a cold, windy morning, I deferred this part, and moved on in order to get warm. I paralleled my first walk by keeping in the woods along the fence, waiting for the troop to come. I had not gone many rods until a note was heard, then a titmouse came in sight, and in a few minutes I was surrounded by titmice, downy woodpeckers, chickadees, and a number of golden-crowned kinglets. Altogether there were twenty-five or more of the little fellows, and they moved so fast that I did not get to see them all, so I followed them to the place where I first saw the nuthatches. Here was where white-breasted was christened "Captain Nuthatch."

Home from his journey Farmer John

Arrived this morning safe and sound;

His black coat off and his old clothes on,

"Now I'm myself," said Farmer John,

And he thinks, "I'll look around."

Up leaps the dog: "Get down, you pup!

Are you so glad you would eat me up?"

And the old cow lows at the gate to greet him,

The horses prick up their ears to meet him.

"Well, well, old Bay,

Ha, ha, old Gray,

Do you get good food when I'm away?"

"You haven't a rib," says Farmer John;

"The cattle are looking round and sleek;

The colt is going to be a roan,

And a beauty, too; how he has grown!

We'll ween the calf in a week."

Says Farmer John, "When I've been off—

To call you again about the trough,

And watch you and pat you while you drink,

Is a greater comfort than you can think;"

And he pats old Bay,

And he slaps old Gray,

"Ah, this is the comfort of going away!"

"For, after all," says Farmer John,

"The best of a journey is getting home;

I've seen great sights but I would not give

This spot and the peaceful life I live

For all their Paris and Rome;

These hills for the city's stifled air

And big hotels and bustle and glare;

Lands all houses, and roads all stone

That deafen your ears and batter your bones!

Would you, old Bay?

Would you, old Gray?

That's what one gets by going away."

"There Money is king," says Farmer John,

"And Fashion is queen, and it's very queer

To see how sometimes when the man

Is raking and scraping all he can,

The wife spends, every year,

Enough you would think for a score of wifes

To keep them in luxury all their lives!

The town is a perfect Babylon

To a quiet chat," said Farmer John.

"You see, old Bay,

You see, old Gray,

I'm wiser than when I went away.

"I've found this out," said Farmer John,

"That happiness is not bought and sold,

And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,

In nights of pleasure and days of worry,

And wealth isn't all in gold,

Mortgages, stocks and ten per cent,

But in simple ways and sweet content,

Few wants, pure hopes and noble ends,

Some land to till and a few good friends,

Like you, old Bay,

And you, old Gray,

That's what I've learned by going away."

And a happy man is Farmer John—

Oh, a rich and happy man is he!

He sees the peas and pumpkins growing,

The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing,

And fruit on vine and tree;

The large, kind oxen look their thanks

As he rubs their foreheads and pats their flanks;

The doves light round him and strut and coo;

Says Farmer John, "I'll take you, too;

And you, old Bay,

And you, old Gray,

Next time I travel so far away."

In order to carry on the work of bird study with any degree of success, experience has taught me that the subject must continually be kept before the pupils in all of its phases. This means actual work among the birds, with eyes sharpened for every movement and ears tuned to every sound.

The first essential, I think, is for the pupil to know the bird by sight—that is, at close range—and to be able to give a minute description, paying attention to details in markings, especially in cases where distinctive markings determine the species.

Our work in autumn consists in a sharp lookout for the warblers that are returning toward the Southland at the beginning of the school term. This requires careful observation, and pupils are encouraged to be watchful at this time and report any small bird they may be able to find on their way to or from school, or at home. A record is kept, and pupils are urged to compete for the longest list of different species.

Later in the season, when the leaves are well off the trees, we start a nest-hunting contest, the object being to see who can find the greatest number of nests in a specified time. Samples of nests are secured and put up in the school room.

When cold weather comes the question of food supply is considered. Shelters for the birds are constructed, and feeding places are prepared. One method is to place a feeding board outside a south window, and fastening a good-sized branch of a tree outside the window, upon which pieces of suet are fastened. The remains of the children's lunches, together with seeds, kernels of nuts, etc., are placed upon the board, and birds soon learn to come to the banquet prepared for them. The pupils are urged to go home and do likewise.

Monthly bird lists are kept, showing the kinds of birds that may be seen each month, and pupils are required to keep note-books in which anything of interest may be noted.

In the spring the question of housing the birds is considered, and pupils are taught to construct simple bird houses, and all are interested in placing these boxes about their homes.

In connection with this field work, attention is given to the literature upon this subject. Scrap-books are kept, and any article relating to birds found in papers or magazines is clipped and pasted in this book.

We have in the school room over one hundred and fifty pictures in colors of the birds to be found in this section of the State, and using these as a basis, I give frequent "lectures" on the habits or any other points of interest concerning these birds.

The pupils are very enthusiastic in the work, and the influence has not only extended throughout the entire district, but other teachers and pupils in the surrounding districts have caught the spirit and much is being done along this line throughout the township.

Have you seen the white birch in the spring, in the Spring?

When the sunlight gleams upon her branches in the spring?

When her green leaves, young and tender,

Through their soft concealment render

Glimpses of her outlines slender in the spring.

Have you seen her wave her branches in the spring, in the spring?

Wave those airy, milk-white branches in the spring?

As they glisten in the light

Of a day divinely bright

When to see them is delight, in the spring.

Have you seen the sunbeams glancing in the spring, in the spring?

Glancing on her leaflets glossy in the spring?

When the wind sets them in motion,

Like the ripples on the ocean,

And they stir our fond devotion, in the spring.

If you have not, then you know not, in the spring, in the spring,

Half the beauty of the birches in the spring.

Past their tops of silver sheen

In the distance far are seen

Blue-tinged hills in living green, in the spring.

There's plentiful blue in the midst of the green;

For blue are the joys that chatter and preen;

The blue bells all nod and sway with the breeze;

Blue-tinged are the hills that border the scene,

And blue birds sing low of nests in the trees.

In the land of the North

When the bird's on the wing,

Then the blue in the woods

Is a charm of the spring.

On waters of blue where soft breezes blow,

With sunshine above and shadow below,

My boat sails the bay, with naught to annoy,

For two[1] that I love sit close as we go,

And laughing blue eyes that mirror with joy.

Far away to the South,

Where the warm tropics lie,

There the blue of the sea

Is the blue of the sky.

Upon the sadness of the sea

The sunset broods regretfully;

From the far spaces, slow

Withdraws the wistful afterglow.

So out of life the splendor dies,

So darken all the happy skies,

So gathers twilight cold and stern;

But overhead the planets burn.

And up the east another day

Shall chase the bitter dark away,

What though our eyes with tears be wet?

The sunrise never failed us yet.

The blush of dawn may yet restore

Our light and hope and joys once more.

Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget

That sunrise never failed us yet.

I wonder if you have ever heard

Of the queer, little, dismal Whiney-bird,

As black as a crow, as glum as an owl—

A most peculiar kind of a fowl?

He is oftenest seen on rainy days,

When children are barred from outdoor plays;

When the weather is bright and the warm sun shines,

Then he flies far away to the gloomy pines,

Dreary-looking, indeed, is his old black cloak,

And his whiney cry makes the whole house blue—

"There's nothing to do—oo! there's nothing to do—oo!"

Did you ever meet this doleful bird?

He's found where the children are, I've heard,

Now, who can he be? It can't be you.

But who is the Whiney-bird? Who—oo? Who—oo?

Who dares write of the Bluebird, thinking to add a fresher tint to his plumage, a new tone to his melodious voice, or a word of praise to his gentle life, that is as much a part of our human heritage and blended with our memories as any other attribute of home?

Not I, surely, for I know him too well and each year feel myself more spellbound and mute by the memories he awakens. Yet I would repeat his brief biography, lest there be any who, being absorbed by living inward, have not yet looked outward and upward to this poet of the sky and earth and the fullness and goodness thereof.

For the Bluebird was the first of all poets,—even before man had blazed a trail in the wilderness or set up the sign of his habitation and tamed his thoughts to wear harness and travel to measure. And so he came to inherit the earth before man, and this, our country, is all The Bluebird's County, for at some time of the year he roves about it from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from Mexico to Nova Scotia, though westward, after he passes the range of the Rocky Mountains, he wears a different dress and bears other longer names.

In spite of the fact that our eastern Bluebird is a home-body, loving his nesting haunt and returning to it year after year, he is an adventurous traveler. Ranging all over the eastern United States at some time in the season, this bird has its nesting haunts at the very edge of the Gulf States and upward, as far north as Manitoba and Nova Scotia.

When the breeding season is over, the birds travel sometimes in family groups and sometimes in large flocks, moving southward little by little, according to season and food-supply, some journeying as far as Mexico, others lingering through the middle and southern states. The Bluebirds that live in our orchards in summer are very unlikely to be those that we see in the same place in winter days. Next to the breeding impulse, the migrating instinct seems to be the strongest factor of bird life. When the life of the home is over, Nature whispers, "To wing, up and on!" So a few of the Bluebirds who have nested in Massachusetts may be those who linger in New Jersey, while those whose breeding haunts were in Nova Scotia, drift downward to fill their places in Massachusetts. But the great mass of even those birds we call winter residents go to the more southern parts of their range every winter, those who do not being but a handful in comparison.

"What does this great downward journey of autumn mean?" you ask. What is the necessity for migration among a class of birds that are able to find food in fully half of the annual range? Why do birds seek extremes for nesting sites? This is a question about which the wise men have many theories, but they are still groping. One theory is that once the whole country had a more even climate and that many species of birds lived all the year in places that are now unsuitable for a permanent residence. Therefore, the home instinct being so strong, though they were driven from their nesting sites by scarcity of food and stress of weather, their instinct led them back as soon as the return of spring made it possible.

Thus the hereditary love of the place where they were given life may underlie the great subject of migration in general and that of the Bluebird's home in particular.

Before more than the first notes of spring song have sounded in the distance, Bluebirds are to be seen by twos and threes about the edge of old orchards along open roads, where the skirting trees have crumbled or decaying knot-holes have left tempting nooks for the tree-trunk birds, with whom the Bluebird may be classed. For, though he takes kindly to a bird-box, or a convenient hole in a fencepost, telegraph pole or outbuilding, a tree hole must have been his first home and consequently he has a strong feeling in its favor.

As with many other species of migrant birds, the male is the first to arrive; and he does not seem to be particularly interested in house-hunting until the arrival of the female, when the courtship begins without delay, and the delicate purling song with the refrain, "Dear, dear, think of it, think of it," and the low, two-syllabled answer of the female is heard in every orchard. The building of the nest is not an important function,—merely gathering of a few wisps and straws, with some chance feathers for lining. It seems to be shared by both parents, as are the duties of hatching and feeding the young. The eggs vary in number, six being the maximum, and they are not especially attractive, being of so pale a blue that it is better to call them a bluish white. Two broods are usually raised each year, though three are said to be not uncommon; for Bluebirds are active during a long season, and, while the first nest is made before the middle of April, last year a brood left the box over my rose arbor September 12, though I do not know whether this was a belated or a prolonged family arrangement.

As parents the Bluebirds are tireless, both in supplying the nest with insect food and attending to its sanitation; the wastage being taken away and dropped at a distance from the nest at almost unbelievable short intervals, proving the wonderful rapidity of digestion and the immense amount of labor required to supply the mill inside the little speckled throats with grist.

The young Bluebirds are spotted thickly on throat and back, after the manner of the throat of their cousin, the Robin, or, rather, the back feathers are spotted, the breast feathers having dusky edges, giving a speckled effect.

The study of the graduations of plumage of almost any brightly colored male bird from its first clothing until the perfectly matured feather of its breeding season, is in itself, a science and a subject about which there are many theories and differences of opinion by equally distinguished men.

The food of the nestling Bluebird is insectivorous, or, rather to be more exact, I should say animal; but the adult birds vary their diet at all seasons by eating berries and small fruits. In autumn and early winter, cedar and honeysuckle berries, the grape-like cluster of fruit of the poison ivy, bittersweet and catbrier berries are all consumed according to their needs.

Professor Beal, of the Department of Agriculture, writes, after a prolonged study, that 76 per cent. of the Bluebird's food "consists of insects and their allies, while the other 24 per cent. is made up of various vegetable substances, found mostly in stomachs taken in winter. Beetles constitute 28 per cent. of the whole food, grasshoppers 22, caterpillars 11, and various insects, including quite a number of spiders, comprise the remainder of the insect diet. All these are more or less harmful, except a few predaceous beetles, which amount to 8 per cent., but in view of the large consumption of grasshoppers and caterpillars, we can at least condone this offense, if such it may be called. The destruction of grasshoppers is very noticeable in the months of August and September, when these insects form more than 60 per cent. of the diet."

It is not easy to tempt Bluebirds to an artificial feeding-place, such as I keep supplied with food for Juncos, Chickadees, Woodpeckers, Nuthatches, Jays, etc.; though in winter they will eat dried currants and make their own selection from mill sweepings if scattered about the trees of their haunts. For, above all things, the Bluebird, though friendly and seeking the borderland between the wild and the tame, never becomes familiar, and never does he lose the half-remote individuality that is one of his great charms. Though he lives with us and gives no sign of pride of birth or race, he is not of us, as the Song Sparrow, Chippy or even the easily alarmed Robin. The poet's mantle envelopes him even as the apple blossoms throw a rosy mist about his doorway, and it is best so.

Adult male.—Length 7 inches. Upper parts, wings and tail bright blue; breast and sides rusty, reddish brown, belly white. Adult female.—Similar to the male, but upper parts except the upper tail coverts, duller, gray or brownish blue, the breast and sides paler. Nestling.—Wings and tail essentially like those of adult, upper parts dark sooty brown, the back spotted with whitish; below, whitish, but the feathers of the breast and sides widely margined with brown, producing a spotted appearance. This plumage is soon followed by the fall or winter plumage, in which the blue feathers of the back are fringed with rusty, and young and old birds are then alike in color.

Range.—Eastern United States west to the Rocky Mountains; nests from the Gulf States to Manitoba and Nova Scotia; winters from southern New England southward.

Similar to the Eastern Bluebird, but breast paler, upper parts lighter, more cerulean blue.

Adult male.—Above deep blue, the foreback in part chestnut; throat blue, breast and sides chestnut, the belly bluish grayish.

Adult Female.—Above grayish blue, chestnut of back faintly indicated, throat grayish blue, breast rusty, paler than in male, belly grayish.

Range.—Pacific coast region from northern Lower California north to British Columbia, east to Nevada.

Adult male.—Almost wholly blue, above beautiful cerulean, below paler, belly whitish. Adult female.—Above brownish gray, upper tail coverts, wings and tail bluish below pale fawn, belly whitish.

Range.—Western United States from Rocky Mountains to Sierras, and from New Mexico north to the Great Slave Lake region.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss in the cup

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee

As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be;

But thou thereon didst only breathe

And sen'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself but thee!

How beauteous is the lordly tree

That scatters cooling shade!

The landscape, O how fair and free

By loving Nature made;

The birds that build in leafy bough

Hail each returning spring,

And in the emerald forests now

They make the Welkin ring.

The tree we plant in years becomes

A monarch old and gray,

And thousands from unbuilded homes

Will bless our Arbor Day;

We plant not for the present time,

But for the days in store.

And those who come from distant clime

Will bless us o'er and o'er.

Hail Arbor Day! With busy hands

With cheerful hearts and free

We come in Nature; loving hands

To plant the bush or tree;

Unto the wide extending plain,

Or to the sun scorched way

We bring the cooling shade again

With joy this Arbor Day.

Where halts the pilgrim for an hour

Let some tree rear its head,

Our work can greet him with a flower,

Or luscious fruit instead;

Plant for the dawning years a tree,

'Twill not be labor lost;

You'll live to bless the day and see

How little was the cost.

Plant trees upon the barren hill

And in the village street,

And shade the little sunny rill

Whose song is rich and sweet;

Where there's a will there is a way.

So let the children come

And plant a tree this Arbor Day—

A tree that stands for Home.

Methinks the rose will fairer bloom

Upon the bush we set,

And softer be its perfume

Above its coronet;

Let every child in Freedom's land

Hail Arbor Day with glee,

And plant with every busy hand

A shrub, a bush or tree.

God made the many trees for shade,

So plant one on this day,

In field, in town, in glen and glade

They yield a gentle sway;

In troops let all the children come

With music, song and cheer;

For Arbor Day is near to Home,

And Home is always dear.

Go plant a tree where none is found,

Make bright some treeless spot,

And as the ceaseless years go round

You will not be forgot;

From hill to hill, from shore to shore,

Let hands forget their play,

And men will bless forevermore

Our sacred Arbor Day.